


Friday Night Fever

by Anker



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anker/pseuds/Anker
Summary: Liam thinks Zayn can't stay at home on a Friday night. He's wrong.





	Friday Night Fever

Zayn is losing a staring contest with his pizza.

He’s in his tiny kitchen, pizza takeout box open on the counter, staring down the pizza he was going to eat - no, the pizza he was going to _devour_ \- which has just slid neatly out of the box and down on the floor, in one elegant swipe so quick that Zayn doesn’t even blink as fast as he should have moved to catch it.

There’s tomato sauce and stringy, melted cheese all over the kitchen cabinets, on the floor and on his socks now. But worst of all: he’s out of pizza.

He hasn’t vacuumed the floor in over two weeks, there’s no way Zayn is going to eat anything that has just made out with his kitchen tiles, especially not something that has enough oregano on it to mask the taste of what could be either a tiny meatball or a dead fly.

Zayn makes a frustrated noise, grabs the still too-hot pizza from the floor and throws it back in its container.

“Stupid pizza”, he growls as he grabs a few kitchen towels and makes a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up the mess.

“Stupid, stupid - stupid kitchen for being so tiny, stupid Harry for leaving me alone, stupid pizza delivery bloke for delivering pizza in boxes and not in handy Tupperware containers - stupid!”

He throws the paper towels in the general direction of the sink and starts pulling open kitchen cabinets to see if there’s anything else he might eat.

This _so_ wasn’t his plan for tonight. It’s Friday, for god’s sake, Zayn doesn’t get mad on Fridays. He gets drunk on Fridays, and he dances, and drinks, and eats pizza, and stumbles home at five in the morning before crashing in his bed, only to wake up on Sunday somewhere in the afternoon and needing a moment or two (or three) to figure out where he is exactly.

He doesn’t stay in on Fridays, alone, with some takeout pizza he didn’t even particularly want and which apparently has decided to retaliate by committing suicide.

It’s all Harry’s fault, he decides.

Harry and Zayn have been living in their tiny flat for two years now, and the arrangement usually works out perfectly. They both needed someone to split the rent with when they started working - Zayn as an English teacher at the local high school, Harry as a singer/songwriter whose audience consists of the three bars and almost every wedding in their tiny town until he’s had his breakthrough, which is going to happen soon, he’s been saying for the past four years. Sharing the flat works: they have someone to rant to when they come home after a long and gruelling day, they have someone to share a beer with on a nice summer evening you don’t want to spend indoors - and so far they haven’t killed each other yet, so it’s all good.

And most importantly: once the weekends arrive, they stick together.

It’s not that Zayn doesn’t like the weekend. He remembers a time when he liked to curl up on the couch with a book, or a notebook to scribble in. He’s vaguely aware of how nice that was, and when people ask him what he does in his spare time, he still answers:

“Reading, writing, painting, listening to music, you know. A bit of everything.”

And sometimes he still reads the odd romance novel, but more often than not, come Friday night, Zayn, Harry and the others go out and the days pass in a blur of beer, loud music, cigarettes and hangovers.

It’s not that they are lonely. Or even unhappy.

But when you’re twentiesomething, trying to model your life after the blueprint you’ve had for all those years, even when you have absolutely no idea which direction its going to turn to next, having time to kill is more of a trap than anything else. No one wants to spend his Friday night reflecting on how much he has no idea what he’s doing.

Zayn isn’t entirely sure if his way of coming to terms with the world around him is a good or a bad thing, so he’s not thinking about it. Which had been a fine strategy, really, until he met Liam.

Liam.

Liam Payne, who moved into town a few months ago and recently started working in the coffee shop around the corner - and whom everyone and their grandma seems to love.

Zayn had taken an immediate liking to the boy when he first met him. Liam was kind, funny and - yeah, he was so not going there right now. Right now, he was completely annoyed with Liam Payne.

In the six weeks since Liam started working at the coffee shop, he had already served Zayn a lot of coffee. A _lot_ a lot of coffee. More specifically: hangover coffee.

On a normal day, Zayn usually grabs his coffee, has a little chat with Liam and to flirt a bit without being too obvious, like the time he tried to sneak a last peek at Liam while leaving the store, and he tripped over a broom which had been leaning against an empty table. Zayn tries not to think about that day too much - his pants still have the stains to show for it.

On a hangover day, however, Zayn shows up at the store at around four, mumbles something about coffee, sits moodily at one of the tables (whilst still ogling Liam - he’s hungover, not dead) and leaves without a word after his second cup.

The first few Sundays, Liam tried to strike up a conversation as usual, but apparently he has since realised that it’s hard to communicate with a brain dead zombie, so now he leaves Zayn alone on the weekends.

Well, usually.

Last week, however, he slammed Zayn’s cup down on the table before he had a chance to order it and asked loudly:

“Have you ever considered just not getting drunk?”

Zayn had looked up at him, slowly so as not to throw off his equilibrium, and mumbled:

“What?”

Liam repeated his question, but Zayn had kept staring at him as if the other boy was speaking a language not remotely like English. Instead of listening, he had been thinking about how unfair it was that Liam had those full, luscious lips and what it would be like to feel those against his own, and - okay - wondering if he was maybe still a little bit drunk from last night and the night before.

“I’m just saying”, Liam went on, putting up his hands to indicate that he intended no harm, was in fact just observing something apparently so obvious that he would be doing the world a disadvantage if he _didn’t_ share it with Zayn.

“You come here every weekend and you always look like complete and utter shit. Don’t you get tired of seeing the best part of the week only in the evenings?”

Zayn had shrugged noncommittally and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Not much else to do on the weekend, though”, he finally muttered.

And Liam had bit on his lower lip, looked at Zayn for what had seemed to be the longest second known to mankind, and shrugged.

“No, I suppose there isn’t.”

And that had been that.

But this Friday morning, when Zayn walked into the store, Liam had been there, and he had been smiling kindly at Zayn as always, and when he wished Zayn a good day, Zayn had suddenly heard himself asking:

“Do you maybe want to hang out later tonight?”

Liam’s face had lit up, and he had smiled his crinkly-eyed smile, the smile that Zayn would sell his soul for if only he could see it a bit longer (that’s it, he thought to himself, the romance novels have to go if this is what they are turning me into), but then it immediately slipped off his face again.

“I already have plans”, he said, “but maybe next time?”

“Oh sure”, Zayn had answered, “yeah, sure, no big deal at all.”

And that had been that.

And now, apparently, Zayn was trying to prove that sure, he could stay in on Friday night by himself, no problem. He had pizza. There was bound to be some movie playing on the telly. He had friends who could keep him company.

Except that his pizza was now on the floor, his friends had all made other plans and the only thing worth watching on the television was a Friends rerun that he had already seen thirty-seven times, give or take.

So now Zayn is sprawled out on the sofa, very hungry, very bored and feeling very, very, very sorry for himself.

It’s only seven when someone knocks at the door.

Zayn eyes it suspiciously. He’s not too sure if he wants to get off the sofa and open the door only to find that the Jehovah’s witnesses he passed this morning were right after all and that the end of the world has indeed come in the form of a giant gorilla which demands either pizza or Zayn’s life.

Knowing his luck, it’s bound to be something similar to this scenario, he thinks whilst still eyeing the front door. Or it might be kids singing carols, but he’s not particularly in favour of that either.

The knock sounds again.

Zayn sighs and decides he’d better go and see if Harry’s lost his key _again_ , before his friend is forced to wait out in the cold all night for the postman, like that time he threw his keys into a postbox by accident.

So he gets up and shuffles to the door, already thinking of ways to taunt Harry. Maybe he will refuse to let him in until he goes and gets Zayn another pizza. Yes, that sounds like a very good idea.

It’s not Harry in front of the door though, nervously shuffling his feet and running his hands through his hair.

“Liam”, Zayn says, surprised.

“Hi Zayn. I - uh, my plans fell through, or well I didn’t go and then I went to track you down at the bar but I only found Harry there and he told me where you’d be and”, he swallows and runs a hand along the back of his neck, visibly anxious, “and I realise this might make me sound like some sort of stalker, which I promise I’m not, and Harry agrees because he gave me your address but I thought - I wondered - if maybe your offer still stands?”

Zayn blinks, once.

Twice.

Liam is still there.

“Yeah, sure”, he blurts quickly, “um - come in.”

And when Liam walks into the small apartment, looks around him, points out the Marvel poster on the wall and smiles at Zayn agin, wrinkles around his eyes and everything, Zayn can’t help but think that maybe, this particular Friday night won’t be so bad after all.

* * *

Later, when Liam is settled on Zayn and Harry’s couch, clutching a beer (just one, he says, he came by car after all), he points at the tv and asks:

“Want to watch a movie?”

Zayn agrees because, well, he would agree to a lot to keep Liam around a little while longer. He’s ordered two pizza’s, which should be here any minute now, and he’s looking for cash in yesterday’s back pockets.

“You can pick one”, he tells Liam, and vaguely motions in the direction of the dvd’s, hoping that Liam won’t pick one from Harry’s horror collection, because in that case Zayn won’t be able to sleep for two weeks and his exam papers are due next Wednesday.

“I’m going to see if Harry has a twenty in his room.”

Liam has offered to pay for pizza, but Zayn said no, guests don’t pay for their food.

“Fine”, Liam says now, “but next time you’re letting me pay, okay?”

Zayn turns away abruptly, because if Liam sees how big the grin is on his face now that he’s heard the words ‘next time’, the poor boy might run away screaming.

He comes back into the room, a crisp twenty in his hand and finds Liam back on the sofa, noticeably closer to Zayn’s spot than he was two minutes ago, and the latest Harry Potter dvd playing.

Zayn usually doesn’t smile this big on Fridays, but he’s making an exception.

* * *

When Zayn wakes up on Sunday morning, it’s strangely disorienting to immediately realise where he is for a change.

He turns his head to look at his alarm clock and thinks: that can’t be right. It’s only eight, and he doesn’t have a headache.

He still kind of wants to murder anyone who would make him even consider getting out of bed, but still - he’s awake, his head isn’t spinning and his stomach isn’t threatening to end up on the floor of his bedroom.

Strange.

He’s not sure if he likes this. What will he do with all these newly discovered hours? It’s like he’s suddenly realised they don’t just skip the early hours on the weekend, but that they’re actually there -all his for the taking, and use them to do his taxes, clean the apartment, figure out when he’s going to be able to be a homeowner and how he’s going to get the left tire of his car fixed without eating spaghetti with ketchup for the rest of the month.

He’s still looking at the clock, thinking that over, when someone shifts beside him and his heart literally skips a beat (yes, _literally_ , that’s what he thinks, and immediately after that: that’s it, I’m burning my box with romance novels later today).

“You up?”

Liam’s barely-awake voice is gravelly and low, and doing things to Zayn that force him to swallow and close his eyes for a second before he can turn around to the boy next to him.

It’s not that they’re cuddling or anything. They’re not. They’re not even touching in any particular way - or any way at all. But Liam is close, so close that Zayn can make out the lighter specks in his dark eyes, even when they’re hooded like this.

He’s afraid that Liam will be able to tell how hard his heart is beating. He’s never paid any mind to this problem before, but now that they are where they are, he wonders how he has been able to go through life without knowing how much of a problem a loud, honest hart can be when you’re next to someone you like.

It’s all good and well that Liam didn’t feel like going home after watching two and a half Potter movies in a row, and it made sense to not have him take the sofa - even though Zayn was kind of surprised that Liam didn’t insist and was as quick as he was to take him up on his offer to share the bed - but he’s certainly not ready yet to show him just how much he’s messing with Zayn’s head.

“Yeah”, he finally answers softly, “I’m awake. My liver is still trying to get its head wrapped around that.”

It’s a lame joke and he almost winces. He doesn’t want to be the person who drinks and parties all weekend, the quintessential British twentiesomething who has an easier life binge drinking than he would have if he would look the world squarely in the eye - but then again, he has kind of turned into that person. even if maybe he doesn’t always particularly like it.

Liam just chuckles, and then he’s sitting up, kicking the covers away and yawning and stretching and just - taking up _so much space_ and Zayn tries to look away but the way Liam’s shirt shifts up when he holds his hand over his head - yeah, that should just be made illegal.

The guy shouldn’t even be allowed to exist, much less stretch and show off his very impressive abs, thank you very much.

Zayn swallows again, mouth dry. He wants to stretch out his fingers and run them over the patch of skin between Liam’s shirt and his sweatpants - _my_ sweatpants, he thinks, and fuck if he’s ever going to wash those again.

Liam looks at him over his shoulder, catches his eye and grins.

“Breakfast, then?”

He’s already climbing off the bed, a satisfied look on his face, before Zayn fully registers what he was saying.

“It’s eight am”, he finally manages flatly, “I’m not getting up.”

“You’re awake, might as well.”

Zayn only grunts at the boy’s retreating back and rolls over, pushing his face into the pillow Liam used. He’s keeping his novels, he decides, because he’s acting just as pathetic as all the lovesick heroes in them, and don’t they always get the girl in the end? He might as well try to learn something from them.

The pillow smells like Liam, which is nice, but it doesn’t change the fact that Zayn’s bed is now empty and that the sound of Liam rummaging away in the tiny kitchen is also kind of distracting.

“I officially hate you”, Zayn announces when he walks into the room.

He’s only wearing sweatpants and he can’t be entirely sure, but he thinks he sees Liam’s eye linger before he quickly turns away again to search for something in a cupboard, so that’s that.

Later, when Liam has handed him a plate of eggs and Zayn has heaved himself into an upright position on the sofa and stopped complaining about how early it is, Liam suddenly asks:

“You don’t think it’s nice? Saturday morning?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him.

“It’s nice to know it exists”, he offers, not really knowing what Liam wants from him.

The other boy chuckles and shakes his head.

“It’s my favourite moment of the week”, he then confesses, “waking up early on Saturday morning and just - making breakfast, weighing over opportunities, knowing that the day is still full of possibilities. No matter what, it might still be a good one.”

Zayn snorts and tries desperately to cover up that somehow, seems it was possible to fall even more in love with this boy than he already had.

“Sometimes you sound forty instead of twenty-four”, he tells Liam, but he pats his leg when he says it so Liam only only rolls his eyes.

When they are finished eating, Zayn collects their plates and puts them on the kitchen counter, next to their dishes from last night.

“We should probably do those now”, Liam teases, “before I leave and you will ignore those for the entire week and I will have to do them next weekend.”

Zayn laughs it off, but his head is reeling and before he can think it through, he agrees.

And that is how, at nine am on Saturday morning, Zayn Malik is in his kitchen, doing the dishes with none other than Liam Payne, who looks ready to start skipping around the apartment, albeit a bit sleepily.

He weighs the opportunities, looks at the day’s possibilities and decides that yeah, it might still be a good one indeed.


End file.
